A Nice Cup of Tea

by Celia Imrie

  Theresa gripped the handrail and slowly clomped down the vertiginous steps. She turned and re-entered her flat.

  All was quiet.

  She put the phone back on to the charger and went out to the courtyard.

  But Chloe was not there.

  Panicked, Theresa ran back inside, shoving open the doors to the spare room and then her own bedroom, then banging first and opening the bathroom door.

  The flat was empty.

  Chloe had fled.

  Heart now hammering, Theresa ran out into the street and looked both ways. There were only a few people on the quayside. She rushed along the front, hoping that the child had gone in the direction of the brasserie.

  As she came to a stop a sudden gust of wind almost pushed her over.

  Marcel was out front, gathering up tablecloths and condiment bottles which would otherwise fly off. ‘Something wrong, Theresa?’

  ‘Have you seen my granddaughter?’

  ‘Not since she was here with you this morning.’

  ‘She ran out of my flat a few minutes ago. You didn’t see her?’

  Marcel shook his head.

  ‘Are you sure – you can see my door quite clearly from here?’

  ‘Too busy with all this.’ He caught hold of a salt cellar which had jittered to the edge of a table.

  ‘If you get a glimpse of her, please call me at once.’

  She ran back home.

  Once inside she grabbed her mobile and, with shaking hands, tried dialling the number Chloe had last used. But the phone went immediately to answer. She realised that this meant that Chloe had either turned the phone off or was on the line to somebody else. No doubt Neil.

  Still gripping her phone, Theresa ran out again into the courtyard.

  If Chloe had gone anywhere it would be to the company of Neil up there.

  But the boy was no longer hanging out of his tiny hotel window.

  She counted up and along, noting the window from which he had earlier been poking. Second floor. Third along from her right.

  It was then that she saw the weird man. His face was squashed against the window, like a pig in one of those Spanish restaurants. He was mouthing panicked words into the glass. His torso, so far as Theresa could see it, was, as Chloe had said, naked.

  But it was not Cyril.

  It was that actor friend of Sally’s, Edgar Markham.

  And he was obviously in serious trouble.

  Without taking her coat, Theresa left the flat and ran up the hill to the Hotel Astra.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Sally was shocked to see that the boat for tonight’s stunt was not a mini gin palace like before, or even a little fisher, but an open, orange rigid inflatable boat. It had the usual steering wheel on a centrally placed control console. Behind that there was a black leatherette motorbike-style seat for two.

  This was going to be a dangerous stunt in so many ways.

  Sally looked out at the sea.

  There was a definite swell building.

  She needed to make things go as smoothly as possible, so she talked briefly to the First Assistant, pointing out that it would be extremely unwise to enter a rigid inflatable boat wearing stiletto heels. Daniel wanted her to keep them on but, after some discussion, the First, clearly worried, relayed Sally’s concern and persuaded him. Foreseeing the boat deflating, stabbed by a stiletto, before they could complete the scene, the First took Sally aside and worked out a routine in which she could appear to try getting into the RIB in heels, lose her balance on the pebbles and, in a moment of anger, take the shoes off and fling them furiously into the carcass of the boat before she herself jumped in after them and took control of the throttle.

  The scene could be very funny, especially as she was in an evening gown, sparkling at all points.

  Wanting to get it right, while the camera crew were focusing the lights, Sally walked down to the water’s edge and went through the sequence a few times by herself.

  It was difficult to do it properly without Eggy. She tried to put the stilettos back on. But she realised that when jumping on the stones without shoes she had laddered her tights. That would be fine later, but would look all wrong at the top of the scene when she was supposed to appear like any other guest leaving a posh party.

  She jammed the shoes on and ran, or rather hobbled, at speed up the beach to the wardrobe mistress. A runner was sent up the slope to the cars to drive back to base and fetch a few pairs of fresh tights from the wardrobe wagon.

  While Sally was hanging around behind the camera crew, Sophie from the wardrobe department brought a warm coat and slung it around her. Sally asked if anyone knew where Eggy had got to.

  Everybodys’ shoulders hunched.

  ‘Nobody has a clue,’ said Sophie. ‘No reply from his phone. No call in to anyone on the crew. Wife hasn’t seen him since this morning.’

  ‘What if he doesn’t turn up?’ Sally shivered and hugged the coat closer. ‘Will they put off shooting this scene till tomorrow?’

  ‘They can’t do that,’ said the Third Assistant, pulling away from the gaggle of make-up and wardrobe girls, cradling a cup of coffee. ‘Tomorrow we have to start on the principals. Marina Martel and Steve Baxter. No possibility of rescheduling anything. It’s now or never. If he doesn’t show in the next ten minutes, we’ll have to put someone else into the scene wearing his costume.’

  ‘What about the lines?’

  ‘We’ll keep his back to camera, then post-synch. Get him in for an ADR in London or something.’

  Sally knew that this would be a very sad way of finishing this job – having to do her last scene with one of the crew.

  Plus she knew from experience that it was far easier to get your laughs – and this scene could be hilarious – if you were fed the cues by an actor, an expert, which Eggy assuredly was.

  She walked slowly back down to the water’s edge. The RIB was being seen to by various tech guys.

  ‘We’re putting in some lighting, hidden by the outboard.’

  ‘And how will we communicate?’

  ‘We thought we’d tape a mobile phone to the console but it’s too noticeable.’

  ‘No point anyway.’ Sally looked around at the rocks either side of the bay, the craggy hill looming up behind the beach. ‘You lose signal quite early out there.’

  ‘Like your co-star,’ Daniel pulled his face away from the camera and laughed sarcastically. ‘Well, I’m sure it’ll work fine without any communication. You just drive out to the horizon and then you turn back.’

  Sally resisted the urge to ask whether the director belonged to the Flat Earth Society. Didn’t everyone know that as you move forward so does the horizon?

  Well. She’d work all that out later. Now she just wanted to get on with it. But where was Eggy?

  Gasping for breath after her run up the hill, Theresa entered the Hotel Astra. She climbed up the stairs to the second floor and banged on the door of the room which she hoped would correspond with the window Neil was using to talk Shakespeare to Chloe.

  Roger opened up.

  He looked tired and depressed.

  ‘Is Chloe in here?’

  Roger pulled a face of incomprehension. ‘Should she be?’

  ‘Where’s Neil?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Roger shrugged. ‘A few minutes ago, he was locked in the bathroom, babbling to himself, then suddenly he shut up and raced out of the room like a lightning bolt.’

  ‘So did Chloe.’ Theresa hoped Roger knew how serious this situation was. ‘Chloe was staying down in my flat for safekeeping. They’ve obviously run off again.’

  ‘Oh bloody hell.’ Roger turned and grabbed a jacket. ‘We’ve got to find them. I don’t want that bloody bossy bitch of a schoolteacher on my back again.’ He paused and winced. ‘Oops. Sorry. She’s your daughter, isn’t she? Ah well. No time for manners now. Let’s go!’

  Theresa followed Roger down the corridor to the stairs. Her phone buzzed. She answered, praying
it would be Chloe.

  ‘Theresa, it’s Sally. Please could you try Phoebe Markham again. I have to get Eggy here. I’m so worried.’

  Theresa was now torn. She had to get out and search for Chloe. But it would be too petty not to tell Sally that she had seen him.

  ‘I know where he is,’ she replied. ‘Hotel Astra.’

  ‘Jesus!’ cried Sally. ‘What the hell is he doing there?’

  ‘Look. We’ve lost Chloe again. I’ll do my best.’

  Theresa hung up, but as she passed the hotel reception desk she paused to tell the clerk that there was a man trapped in a room on about the third or fourth floor.

  ‘Oh that’s all right,’ said the clerk. ‘We know all about that. It’s an actor rehearsing a part. The lady with him told us he was not to be disturbed.’

  ‘Grandma!’ Theresa spun round to find Lola grabbing at her skirts. Roger, she noticed, had also been stopped and was now in a tense conversation with a woman who looked very like his ex-wife Cynthia.

  ‘I think you should definitely check on him,’ Theresa explained to the desk clerk. ‘He may be acting but he doesn’t look at all well.’

  ‘But I . . .’

  ‘Just do it!’ snapped Theresa.

  The clerk slithered out from behind the desk and ran up the stairs, skeleton key in hand.

  ‘Have you come to visit your special room, Grandma?’ asked Lola. ‘Cressy and I found it the other day when we were exploring.’

  Over the child’s shoulder, Theresa could see that it was actually Cynthia, who now looked extremely elegant and self-contained. Nothing at all like the drunken woman they had visited days before.

  She was standing close to Roger, but the couple were quarrelling – and the subject was their son Neil.

  Theresa moved across to them.

  ‘We should go, Roger,’ she said. ‘They can’t have got far. I just have to take my other granddaughter back to her mother.’ Theresa took Lola by the hand. ‘Where’s Mummy, darling?’

  ‘Mummy’s gone out to see the ballet at Monte Carlo. We’re sitting in the bar with Frances, the magic dragon. She can make smoke come out of her nose. Come along.’ Lola tugged at Theresa’s hand, pulling her along the passageway.

  ‘Roger, Cynthia,’ she called back over her shoulder. ‘Please wait for me. I can’t be responsible for the loss of two grandchildren in one day. I won’t be a minute.’

  Both Roger and Cynthia stood together still, stabbing at their phones, presumably trying to contact Neil.

  Lola turned off the corridor and pushed Theresa through a door marked ‘Storeroom. No Entry’.

  ‘This isn’t the bar,’ said Theresa, pulling back.

  ‘No. It’s your room, Grandma.’

  As Lola marched into the tiny room, Theresa remained on the threshold, not believing her eyes.

  The walls were covered with photos of herself. Photos blown up to gigantic size. The photo of her on the terrace. Photos from the album. Photos of her walking along the quay, sitting on benches, having breakfast on the terrace of the brasserie this morning. A photo of her in her nightgown, staring up in the darkness.

  ‘Did you do this?’ Theresa didn’t know why she had asked such a stupid question. This was clearly not the work of a child. She glanced along the countertops and shelves. Boxes marked Serviettes, Plateaux and Nappes, piled high. There was a glass-fronted refrigerator.

  Inside were more boxes, marked Oeufs, Bacon and Saucissons.

  It was obviously the storeroom for things the hotel used for breakfasts and room service. And by the look of the refrigerator, Cyril had recently been here.

  A touch on Theresa’s shoulder and she leaped into the air. But it was only Frances.

  ‘Lola! You little rascal. Theresa! Thank goodness for that. I thought Lola had done a runner too.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘My God! A shrine!’ Frances stopped short and peered over Theresa’s shoulder. ‘What’s this all about? Is it an art installation of some kind?’

  ‘I have a stalker.’ Theresa lowered her voice to reply into Frances’s ear. ‘It seems that Lola has just discovered his hideout.’

  ‘Come along, Lola.’ Frances raised her voice and stretched out a hand behind her. ‘Let’s get back to that jigsaw, eh?’

  As Frances shoved Lola along the corridor, she turned back to Theresa.

  ‘What did you mean when you said, “How did you know?” You haven’t lost Chloe again, have you?’

  ‘Between you and me, Frances, yes, I have.’ Theresa shut the door of the room which was a strange place of devotion, dedicated to herself. ‘But it was literally minutes ago that she ran out of my front door. And we all know she’s gone to Neil. His parents, Roger and Cynthia, are at reception. We’ve got to find them. Now!’

  Theresa took a step away. Once more Frances touched her shoulder.

  ‘And who was responsible for that little reliquary inside there?’ Frances tipped her head in the direction of the storeroom. ‘Do you know?’

  ‘I think it’s a man called Cyril. He’s been weird to me for a few weeks now.’

  ‘And who is Cyril? An ex?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’ Theresa was appalled at the very thought. ‘He’s the local butcher.’

  ‘Butcher!’ Frances pulled a face of horror. ‘Good luck with that, Theresa!’

  Theresa ran out to join Neil’s parents.

  When she reached reception she found Edgar Markham standing there, naked but for a towel. He was yelling loudly in English to the desk clerk, telling him that he must call him a cab, pronto.

  Such was the state of Edgar’s agitation the clerk could not understand a word he was saying.

  Theresa hastily translated.

  ‘That bloody woman of yours.’ Edgar spun round to face Theresa. ‘She tied me up. Took away my clothes. Your friend. And Sally’s.’

  Theresa hadn’t a notion what he was talking about.

  ‘Tall. Blonde. Very strong . . . as I discovered when I tried to fight her off.’ He ran his hand over his bald patch. ‘God. I’m so late on to set. This is a disaster. A disaster! And it’s my last filming day.’

  ‘How do you know she’s a friend of mine and Sally’s?’ asked Theresa, edging towards the front door, where Roger and Cynthia were still standing, squabbling.

  ‘Because she bloody drove up to that godforsaken village to pick Sally up that sodding night when we both got stranded. Or so she told me today. I was too bloody drunk to remember her. But I met her for lunch because I was labouring under the mistaken impression that she was going to be fun.’

  A wardrobe girl ran down the beach and thrust hand warmers into Sally’s icy hands. ‘You’ll die of cold, darling.’

  ‘What a mess.’ Sally held her coat tight but in the gusting wind it made little difference. ‘Where is he?’

  One of the runners was getting into Eggy’s costume and the scene would soon be ready to shoot.

  Sally turned towards the sea, pulled her phone from her handbag and hastily tried Eggy’s number once more. Voicemail. After leaving another desperate message she went to turn the phone off again but it rang in her hand. She picked up.

  ‘Hi, Mum. I thought you’d be at work.’

  ‘Marianne?’ Sally stooped over the phone. ‘I am at work. What do you want?’

  ‘Oh, charming. Well, I was phoning to tell you there’s been a change of plan. I’m sitting in the bar of the Hotel Astra, and, well, the bloke who I’ve been after, you know, Roger . . . well, his wife’s turned up.’

  ‘So leave him alone, then.’

  ‘But they’re divorced . . .’

  ‘What has it to do with me? Do what you want.’

  ‘I wondered if you had any tips. How I can keep hold of him.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Marianne. I’m at work. Go and get a copy of Barbara Cartland’s Guide to Dating or something. But don’t disturb me again.’

  She hung up and slipped the phone into her prop handbag.


  One of the runners, dressed in Eggy’s evening suit, sidled up to her. ‘Hi. I’m Mike. I know I’ll be dubbed, but do you want to go through the lines with me? I really have never acted before and . . .’

  Jeez! This was all Sally needed. But obviously it would be better for her if she was given her cues in the correct order. So, for a minute or two, they bantered the lines back and forth.

  Sally’s phone rang again. ‘Mum. Your friend Theresa was here! And some hubbub with that actor bloke you were with at the Negresco. They were naked in a room or something . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Now Theresa’s gone off with Roger and his wife.’

  ‘I’ve got no time for this. Sorry.’ She swiped to end the call and dropped the phone back into her bag.

  While the runner muttered Eggy’s lines, Sally tried to make sense of what Marianne had said. Theresa had been naked in a room with Eggy at the Hotel Astra. Marianne was obviously bonkers; either that or desperately trying anything to get her attention. Well, fine, she would phone her back later, when work was over and she was in the make-up wagon getting her slap off.

  They tried to go through the lines again, but the First Assistant came running down to the water’s edge and interrupted them. ‘Sally! Urgent.’ He was holding out a phone. ‘It’s Marianne. Hotel Astra?’

  Sally couldn’t believe her ears.

  ‘What?’

  ‘She needs to talk to you right now. It’s very important.’

  ‘For crying out loud! Honestly, I’ve had enough of today. Seriously?’ Sally took the phone. ‘Look, Marianne, why don’t you just piss off and leave me alone. You’re getting on my nerves. So just bugger off and sort out your own boring love life. I’m too busy for this puerile crap.’

  When she handed the phone back she saw that the First Assistant’s expression was one of shock. His mouth had fallen open. He was almost a comedy picture of astonishment: eyebrows raised, eyes wide open and a gaping O for a mouth.

  ‘What?’ she asked. ‘What? Why the face?’

  ‘You do know who you were just talking to?’

  ‘My daughter Marianne, from the Hotel Astra.’